


A Little Domestic

by apliddell



Series: The Very Best of Times [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt and comfort, John and Sherlock on holiday, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Angst, Nightmares, Post Mary, Villain Mary, lesbian Victor Trevor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: Let’s stay in love indefinitely. The view here is beautiful.





	1. Chapter 1

Feel warm. Unsteady. I reach for the corner of the rather grimy kitchen worktop, then draw my hand back. Mustn’t touch. Crime scene.

“Sherlock?” John’s face creases quizzically at me (looks funny)(fuzzy). Look at his hand resting on my shoulder instead. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I tell him. “I’m fine.” Hot. Tug at my scarf. It won’t come loose. I blink hard. Everything’s sort of gone behind a fug. Blink again, sway and stumble. 

Wake(?) a moment (?) later. My head aches. I’m lying flat on my back on the kitchen floor of this grubby little bedsit I’m meant to be searching for clues. “I’m contaminating it.” Reach for John (knelt by my hips).

Nearby Lestrade sighs and shuffles nervously, “Oh thank god.”

John puts a gentle hand on my shoulder to hold me down, “Hang on a moment. What’s your name, please?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” I lower my voice so that only John can hear, “William on extremely special occasions. Today is Tuesday, the fourth. We came here in a cab after Lestrade asked us to investigate this break-in because he suspects it’s connected to the murder from last week. You’re wearing your mallard-patterned underpants today, and you’re being really nice to me because you’re a tiny bit cross with me and trying not to let on. I don’t have a concussion. May I sit up now? I’m sure there’re crumbs in my hair.” 

“The crumbs won’t kill you,”John draws back a bit and offers a hand to pull me into sitting, “Lean back against the cabinet, please.” I obey and he pulls a little torch out of the inner breast pocket of his jacket and shines it in my eyes. Then he checks my pulse. 

“What’s happened, John? Why’m I on the floor?”

“You fainted,” John’s eyes are on his watch. Difficult to gauge his thoughts when he’s in doctor mode. He gets so single-minded; it’s almost like a mask. “Still working out why.”

“I’m not using,” Too hasty?(sounds guilty)(but I’m not!). “I’m clean. I haven’t since. The plane. But you can check me if you. I won’t be offended.” 

John nods, “Thought not. Thanks for not making me ask.” He looks over at Lestrade, “Could you get us a cab? Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Let me know how he is,” Greg steps out of the room at once, already taking out his phone. 

I grimace, and John pats my thigh sympathetically, “I know, I know. None of us are pleased about Sherlock on the floor. I’m trying to sort it out, all right? You trust me?”

“Of course,” instantly. 

“Thank you,” John kisses my cheek. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pear (nice crisp green one, not one of those horrible, mealy brown ones)(John always chooses the right everything)(asterisk) and a pocket knife. John carves off a thin slice of pear and holds it out to me, “This is something to do with you not having had lunch, breakfast, or dinner.”

“I’ve gone longer than that before,” take the slice of pear reluctantly between my lips. I don’t especially want to eat it, but still it’s cool and sweet and refreshing. Suddenly conscious of being very thirsty.

“We’ll talk about that at home, I think. Just thought you might be wondering why you fainted. Might want an update.” John offers me another slice of pear. 

“We’re going home?” pull a face and take the pear out of John’s hand to bite into it. 

“Mmyep, even once you’ve finished that.” He pats my back. I want to argue, but I’m tired. Take another bite of pear. “Finish it up, and we’ll go down for our cab, all right?”

Take another bite of pear (it really is delicious) and answer with my mouth full, “What about the case?” 

John shrugs, “Scotland Yard got on for a hundred and fifty years before you were born. I expect they’ll struggle through you taking a day off.”

Huff a bit, “I’ve already solved it anyway. And it’s hundred and fifty two, actually.”

“Mmhm, thanks. Eat. You’ll feel better.” 

“I’m fine!”

John cocks his head, “Well you have got crumbs in your hair. Could’ve been worse, too. If I hadn’t caught you on your way down. Might’ve come away with a concussion. Or.” He clears his throat, averts his eyes. 

Prickle with shame (master the urge to hide my face)(can’t stop doing this to him)(no, don’t think of that now), “I suppose I have just contaminated a crime scene.” 

John smiles sympathetically, “We’ll worry about that later, Sherlock.” 

Slump against him and bite into my pear, “Sorry I’m rubbish at being alive, John.”

John rubs my head, “You aren’t rubbish, only overworked and underfed. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I haven’t been looking after you properly.”

I bury my face against his shoulder (feeling sort of teary)(always get a bit prickly when he apologises to me)(don’t want to let on), “Could I interest you in a very ugly dog? I could kip at the end of your bed. Eat out of a dish on the floor.” John snorts and kisses my head. “Need hardly any obedience training. Bad at stay. Good at come. Won’t do much licking, I’m afraid.” 

“Don’t want a very ugly dog. Sorry,” John pets my shoulder. “Can I keep my very handsome man?”

Sigh, “If you insist I suppose I can retain my human form.” Finish the pear and pocket the stem. 

John kisses my cheek, “Good man. Shall we go now?” 

Nod, “Yes, I’m ready.” After he rises, I take John’s proffered hand and let him pull me to standing. John drapes my arm round his shoulder. “I’m not as wobbly as all that, John.”

“What?” John smiles innocently, “Affection.” 

“Affection? My goodness. Is this cross-nice or nice-nice?” Rather cling onto John on the stairs (old carpet, slippery). 

John squeezes my hand, “I don’t know about nice, but you might say I’m a little bit fond of you.”

I sigh (muffle the urge to kiss him), “And yet you won’t let me turn myself into a dog.” 

Lestrade comes toward us, folding his arms as we step out of the building (no longer wrapped round each other unfortunately). “Everything all right?” he asks, following us to the cab that John is steering me toward. 

“It was the brother. For the lottery money. And it’ll have been the ice, not the liquor. Swab the freezer. There’ll be residue. He was clever, but I’m cleverer.”

“We’re fine, thanks,” John opens the cab door for me. “Anything unexpected happens, I’ll let you know.” 

Huff a little, “Nursemaid network.” They take no notice of me.

“Thanks, gents,” Lestrade nods at each of us in turn, then tucks his notepad and pen away in a pocket and turns back to his crime scene. 

“That was slightly less humiliating than expected,” I get into the cab. 

John follows me and gives our address before he answers me, “Seeing as how you saved England not eight weeks ago, I reckon you’re allowed to be a little unwell now and again. You’ve got a living, functional human body,” here he pauses to rap his own skull with his knuckles (roll my eyes), “and even you need to act like it.” 

Scoff, “Act like it. I don’t know what that’s even supposed to mean.”

“Means feed it, water it, and rest it. Do all that and you may even enjoy it.” I raise an eyebrow and John smiles, “You know what I mean. Enjoy the transport.” 

“‘Enjoy the transport’?” Really extend that eyebrow, “I don’t know what you mean John, though of course you are welcome to demonstrate.”

John glances up at the cabby and lowers his voice, “Are you inviting me to bribe you?”

Part my knees a bit more so that one of mine bumps John’s, “I’m sure you know my integrity is unimpeachable.”

John bumps back, “So’s mine.”

Press my leg against his, “Clearly.”

John looks down at our knees, “But.”

“Mmm?”

“We may, ah, we may be able to come to some sort of. Mutually agreeable understanding.” 

Incline my head towards John and lower my voice, “Oh indeed, John. I have every faith in us.”


	2. Chapter 2

John pays the fare when the cab pulls up in front of our place. He precedes me out of the cab and waits for me to ascend into the flat ahead of him. Always ready to catch me, John is.

“Get comfy,” he advises as he shuts the door behind us, “We won’t be up to much the rest of the day, will we?”

“I mainly do as I’m told,” I hang up my coat, then go through to the bedroom to change into my pyjamas and dressing gown. Re-enter the sitting room and stretch out on the sofa. Use my phone to order up a little present for John, then shut my eyes and listen to John bustle about the kitchen. Comforting sort of sound. John’s activity always is. Feels. Altogether.

John returns to the sitting room a short time later with a plate of toasted cheese and onion sandwiches and a pot of tea. John’s got a sentimental attachment to that teapot. He had it Before, which means it’s been through at least three moves with him, despite the chipped spout (try not to think about the chip)(ergh). John kisses me on the top of the head, then goes to get our mugs from the kitchen. 

“Be right back,” he tells me after he pours out. He sets down the teapot and goes up to his old bedroom, where we’re storing the boxes we haven’t bothered to unpack yet. He returns a moment later with a stethoscope round his neck. He sits down next to me and lifts the chestpiece, “May I?”

I try and hide a smile as I sit up and raise my shirt to my chin in acquiescence, “Help yourself.” 

John puts in the earpieces and breathes on the chestpiece to take the chill off, then presses it to my chest. “Hmmm,” he says presently. 

“Hmm what?”

John looks up at me gravely, “It just says, ‘I love John’ over and over.” 

I laugh, “You and your bedside manner.” 

John laughs as well. He puts the stethoscope aside and kisses me, “Sounds good in there. Tuck in before it goes cold.” I do tuck in and sit back on the sofa with a little sigh of satisfaction. John picks up a sandwich also and rather absentmindedly tears the crust off, “Erm. Sherlock.”

Swallow my mouthful, “Mm?”

“I’ve been. Thinking.”

“Uh oh,” Take another bite (ravenous)(take another). 

John smiles, “Yeah well. Picked it up from you, so blame yourself.”

Nudge him with my knee, “You were most certainly thinking when I met you, John. You did not pick it up from me.”

“Ha. Debatable. Erm. Anyway. What I’ve been thinking is erm. It might. Might be good to lay low for a bit.”

Swallow a mouthful (mmf bit underchewed), “I think you mean lie low.”

John strokes my arm, “I mean you and me ought to have a holiday together.”

“Hmm.” Put down my sandwich and lean into his hand, “Are you sure you’re not cross with me, John? You’re still being really, really nice. It’s unsettling.” 

John laughs, “I’m not cross with you for fainting, Sherlock. Am I really so much of an arsehole that it unsettles you when I’m nice?”

“Deliberately being lovely when I’m horrible makes me feel like I’m dying or something. Unsettling.” Lay my head on his shoulder so I don’t have to look at his face when he answers.”

“You aren’t horrible, you’re ill,” John puts his arm about me. “I want to help make you well, okay?”

“Well all right, but all our problems would be solved, if you’d let me change myself into a dog.”

John kisses my hair, “We don’t have to go anywhere, but you need a rest. We both need a rest after what we’ve been through this year. Eh?”

Look up at that, “Are you.” Lick my dry lips (too big, too scary a word to say). He doesn’t make me say it. 

John kisses me, “Sherlock, all I want in the world is to be with you all the time. I’m only a bit worried about your health. You need a break.” John toys with my hair, strokes the back of my neck, “Okay?”

Impossible to resist this sort of treatment, “Okay.” Shut my eyes, “What sort of break?”

“Well first of all, no cases.”

“No sick people either then, doctor.” 

John squeezes me, “All right. I can manage that. And it’s got to be at least a fortnight, but I’d rather it were a month.”

Sit up, “A month without cases?”

“You can do a month. You’ve done a month standing on your head.”

Snort impatiently, “Yes, when you got married. Hardly standing on my head.” My tone is sharpish when the words leave my mouth, and John rather winces. I flush with shame and drop my eyes, “Sorry.” 

John squeezes my knee (trying to hide the tremour in his hand). “You didn’t do it to me; I did it to you,” his voice is tight. Hide my face against his chest, and he hugs me back. 

“My point being,” I continue after several of John’s heartbeats, “I wasn’t sat idle for ages. I had work. I had a purpose.”

John pats my back, “What tasting cake and folding napkins? That was meaningful to you?”

Draw a very long breath and let it out through my teeth, my face still tucked against John’s chest, “Coming to terms with your happiness being at odds with my happiness and trying to promote yours anyway.”

John’s hand trembles on my knee. He hugs me tighter, “Oh.” 

I reciprocate the pressure, nestle my head against him (lovely smell of his throat)(so strong here)(soothing). To my surprise, I feel a teardrop land on the back of my neck. John squeezes me tighter still, nearly too tight for breath. I squeeze back. I wait. I listen to the thump of his heart (we are all right).

“Your happiness is my happiness,” John says presently, his voice thick and raspy. I nod hard. John kisses my hair, strokes my back. “Please,” soft as his breath in my hair. “We need to rest. Let me look after you.” 

I nod, “Yes. A rest. All right. Place me as you want me, John.” Get hold of a bit of his shirt and chafe it between my fingertips, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.” He rubs my back, and I think I could dissolve in his arms, “Thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Honey, I’m home!” John’s voice calls up to me over the sound of the front door shutting. Rise immediately and bound down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Slip a little at the foot of the stairs and crash into John, who has come to meet me in the kitchen. “Hello there, gorgeous,” he catches me round the waist to steady me and clasps the back of my neck. 

“Hello John!” too pleased to see him to be embarrassed at my own clumsiness. I kiss him, and he hums and strokes my back. 

“Ooh. Nice one.” 

“Mmm thank you,” kiss him again. “I’ve been practising.” 

“It shows. Somebody missed me.” John gives my hip a little squeeze. 

“I haven’t slept a wink nor swallowed a morsel, John.” 

John laughs, “I’ve been gone two hours.”

“Still true.” 

John takes me by the hand and draws me out into the sitting room, “You look cute in my jammies.” 

Jab him in the side with my thumb. He catches my hand. “Wrong on all counts, John.”

John pulls me toward him, “Is that so?”

“There are in fact my clothes.”

“Then explain why you’ve got six centimetres of ankle showing,” John rubs his ankle against one of my mine in demonstration. 

“What you see John,” with tremendous dignity (despite the shivery feeling growing up from where John’s trouser leg is rubbing against my bare skin) “Is an appendage taking an airing.”

“Still cute,” John wraps both arms round my waist and raises his chin to invite a kiss. I accept with pleasure. “Mmm, guess what I found stuffed halfway through the letterbox.”

Ah, his parcel’s arrived. Excellent, “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Pat his sides for the bulge of the box (though I know he hasn’t got it on him or I’d have spotted it already)(I know his dimensions)(better than ever!)(mmmm). 

John laughs a low, rough little laugh, “Are you frisking me or quizzing me? Seems like you ought to choose one or the other.”

“I choose frisking,” pat him all over, ending with his bottom, which receives several rather sharp pats. “Though I know you’ve left the box out here, or you’d have brought it out in the kitchen, since it’s going to end up on the fridge anyway. You brought me out to have me watch you rip off the packaging. And because you wanted to put your hands on me.”

“Excellent deduction,” John noses mine. 

“Congratulate me.” John clasps my neck. Kisses me. Rubs shivers down my spine and makes me squirm in his arms. Between us in his breast pocket, John’s phone chirps then buzzes (hmm that’s sort of interesting)(though seems not quite appropriate as a method of delivery). 

I groan. “Ignore that, John.”

“I am,” John nips at my lip (mmm)(shiver). “You’re the one not ignoring.”

I hug him to me and bite back. The phone buzzes again. “I can ignore just as hard as you can, John Watson.”

“Yeah?” John rubs my hip. “Prove it,” he slides his hand round to my backside and squeezes. 

Lean into him, “Mmmmn John.” 

“I know,” John slides one hand up my back to clasp the nape of my neck and kisses along my collarbone where it rises out of the neck of my tee shirt. From far away (not all that far but far enough that I don’t bother about it) there’s a sort of clunking, shuffling sound. Dimly aware that it’s the type of sound I generally take notice of. But at the moment, John and I are ignoring competitively. 

John squeezes my arse again and a silly little noise escapes me through my nose. John giggles and sets me off as well. Our teeth knock together, which only makes us laugh harder. There’s a dry cough behind us, and we both start. Look round to find Mycroft in the open doorway of the sitting room and make a grunt of disgust. 

Shove my hands in my dressing gown pockets, “What do you want?”

Mycroft shakes his head at me, “Oh Sherlock, you’re not even dressed. Get something on; we’ll be late.” 

Primary school flashbacks. “Go away. We’re busy.” 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft clicks his heel against the floor (it might almost be called a stamp). “Our parents are visiting, Sherlock. Impromptu family dinner before they leave on their holiday. I’ve left you four messages!”

“No, you haven’t!” He may have, actually. I haven’t the faintest idea where my phone is (bathroom?) and have been up in John’s old bedroom investigating his things. 

“You are of course also invited, John,” Mycroft looks past me. Change of tack. Might work, too. John will hate the idea of being rude to my parents. My lovely mum and dad. 

“Why is it,” I raise my voice before John can respond (he’s slipped his hand into mine, though)(lovely John)(adore John) “that the organisation of these outings always revolves around your timetable?”

Mycroft sighs. “Oh for heaven’s sake, Sherlock. If you ever lifted a filial finger, you might find that the arrangements were more to your liking. As it stands, the feedback we have from you on the matter is two decades of eye rolling and rude noises.”

Glare at him, “Interesting how you always say ‘we’ in these conversations. It aids in the illusion that our parents find me as annoying as you do and agree with you about everything!” 

Mycroft half turns as if to leave (though he won’t until he gets his way), “If you get some clothes on this minute and come down to the car, you may spend the journey to the restaurant pretending I am tormenting you, instead of attempting to buy you a very nice meal.”

“Kind of missing the point there.” Lovely John. 

“Mycroft’s never made contact with the point in his life.” Just manage not to fold my arms (childishness of the gesture undercuts my high road)(clasp my hands behind my back; very superior). 

Mycroft sighs, “Our parents would like to have dinner with you this evening, Sherlock. W-I hope the short notice will not be insurmountable.” 

Open my mouth to gloat, then shut it thinking of my high road. 

John does it for me, “There now. Wasn’t that easy? What do you say, Sherlock? Want to let your brother buy you dinner? We’ll take a raincheck on the other thing, mm? I can make you a poem when we come home.” 

Without looking at him, I know Mycroft’s eyebrow went up at ‘make you a poem', “I’ll go if you go.”

John squeezes my hand, “Quick then, let’s get dressed.” 

…

Mum and Dad are already at the restaurant when we arrive. They pop out of their chairs as soon as they spot us, and it’s hugs and kisses all round. Even for John, who looks rather surprised but pleased at the contact. 

“Ah lovely,” Mummy rather twinkles at John (she adores him)(difficult to conceal how delighted I am by that). “I was hoping Sherlock would bring you along, John dear.”

“Cheers, Mrs Holmes. Glad to be here,” John’s smile creases the faint impression of lipstick on his cheek. 

“Oh it’s Mae, dear,” Mum pats John’s shoulder. “You must call me Mae.”

He smiles (very charming), “Thanks, I will.”

“He isn’t here to be interrogated,” I pull out Mummy’s chair. 

“Perish the thought,” mutters Mycroft. 

Mum ignores him, “Of course not, love.” She cups my cheek briefly before she sits. 

Dad sits next to her, “It is so nice to all be together like this. Thank you for organising, Mycroft.” 

“My pleasure,” Mycroft smiles rather sourly (put on)(so obvious that I don’t know why he even bothers). 

“Yeah, thanks for having me, Mycroft,” John settles down next to me. 

“Ah, well you’re the only one who seems to be able to do anything with Sherlock.” 

I glance at John, and under the table, he touches his shoe to mine and reaches for my hand. “Yeah, he is lovely, isn’t he?” He smiles at me. I want to kiss him. 

“I’m going out with John,” Gaze at John and he glows back at me (the most luminous of people)(who said that?)(I did!). “Going by the timing of this outing and everybody’s simpering, I’m sure you’ve already worked that out.” John raises his eyebrows. “Simpering in a nice way. Is fawning better?” 

He smothers a laugh, “Not really.”

“Why not? Fawns are nice.”

“I think so, too. But it’s sort of patronising, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.” 

“Very patronising. Thank you, John.” Mycroft passes me a wine list, “Here. Choose something nice and use this to shield your derisive whispers about your dining companions.” 

Open the wine list, “You’re imagining things, Mycroft. John and I are perfectly well prepared to have a lovely evening.” Smile fondly at my parents in turn, “Do we all like beaujolais?”

“Boys, stop squabbling,” Mum is on the verge of wagging a finger (very diagonal eyebrows). “This is our last family dinner before Daddy and I are off back to America.” 

“Though actually we may have to postpone the trip,” Dad says tragically. “Our housesitter sprained her ankle.”

Under the table, John’s knee bumps mine. I glance at him, and he smiles without looking at me. “That’s unlucky. How long were you intending to be gone for?”

“Oh about a fortnight,” Dad says. 

At the same time Mum says, “Eighteen days.” 

John looks at me now, and his expression calls an answering smile onto my face, “A fortnight, Sherlock.”

“I heard, John,” bump his knee with mine. 

“Well? Do you think?” 

I really can’t help grinning at him when he looks so droll and pleased, “You know best, darling.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot up, “Care to share with the rest of the class?”

“Sorry for the mystery,” John turns to my parents. “We could look after the house for you. I’ve just convinced Sherlock we need to have a bit of a holiday anyway.”

“You certainly do!” Mum nods firmly at John. 

“You’re not resisting whisking John off for a holiday in the country, Sherlock?” Dad looks at me. “Aren’t you too much of a romantic for that?”

“Romantic!” John grins and squeezes my elbow. “Do we do that?”

“I suppose we could dabble,” I say, looking hard at Dad. 

“Your mother and I felt a good ten years younger after we moved to that house, Sherlock,” Dad looks into the middle distance with dreamy fondness and holds his hand out to Mum. 

She takes it, “What a lovely summer. Remember the telescope?”

Dad grins at her, “Remember the treehouse?”

Mum swats him lightly on the arm, “Bob! The children!” They giggle wildly.

Mycroft and I sigh, and John kicks my shoe under the table and bounces his eyebrows at me, grinning widely. “That definitely settles it, eh?” 

“Of course. Just as you like.”

John presses my hand, “Let’s take the cottage!”


	4. Chapter 4

“John, have you packed my jeans?”

“Yep.”

“My eyedrops?”

“Yes.”

“My sleeping pills?”

“Yeah.”

“Curling cream?”

“Yep.”

“Did you pack the book I was reading?”

“Yes Sherlock, I did pack The Guide to Getting Off.”

“Do I detect a sneer? Someone doesn’t know on which side his bread is buttered.”

“They probably cover that in the book, though.”

“...And now I’ve got coffee coming out of my nose. I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Is that in the book as well? I’m not really into nose stuff, to be honest.”

“Well you certainly won’t be getting any.”

…

“Did you have my car washed?”

“Well we’re taking it down, so I thought I may as well.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what this is.”

“You have the advantage of me there, John.”

“You’re buttering me up so that I’ll let you drive. Not enough butter in the world, Sherlock.”

“My, what a mental image. You and. All that butter.”

“Getting distracted?”

“Give me a moment.”

“Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought.” 

“I’m a good driver.”

“Ha!”

“Driving actually at the speed limit and not ten miles under doesn’t preclude that.”

“Ha!”

“You just don’t want to let me be the cool one. You’re defensive about it because of your height.”

“HA!”

“Let me drive!”

“Never.” 

…

“So this is where you grew up, mm? Where we’re going? The Holmes family estate. Where it all began.”

“Mmmno, actually. I grew up in London. This house belonged to my father’s mother Violet and her wife Rebekah. Well my parents always referred to Rebekah as Granny’s dear friend, but you know. It was the eighties.”

“Right, yeah. The eighties.”

“My family lived in the house now occupied by Mycroft. My parents emigrated to the States when I was about nineteen. They inherited this house a few years later when my grandmother died, so they’re here when Florida is hideous and vice versa. Except for now, I suppose. Florida is plenty hideous, but second cousins choose such difficult times to marry. They won’t be reasoned with.”

“Florida? Did they know Mrs Hudson back then?”

“Ha, yes they did. Slightly. Lived in the same retirement estate. She was more my friend than theirs.”

“Was she, really? She couldn’t have been younger than sixty.”

“Little old ladies are a budding detective’s best friend, John.”

“Did she share her grass with you then as well?”

“It’s a longstanding tradition, John.” 

“I’d have liked to have seen that.” 

“Not much has changed, honestly.”

…

“I finally made a poem with the kit you gave me. Before we left. Did you see? On the fridge. I er. Ha. I took a photo on my phone, if you didn't.”

“Not only did I see, John, I’ve memorised it.”

“Have you indeed? Let’s hear it, then.”

“ ‘Let’s stay in love indefinitely. The view here is beautiful.’”

“Perfect! Full marks. It sounds much better when you say it than it does in my head, by the way.”

“I’m glad you think I do you justice, John.”

…

 

“Got him, John?”

“Yep, nineteen.”

“Asking if you’re ready doesn’t count as a question!”

“You didn’t say ‘Are you ready?’ you said ‘Got him?’ because you’re a filthy sneak and a cheat.”

“Well!”

“People love to contradict you, mm? Got to be ruthless with you, since you’re so crafty. I don’t suppose you’re ready to guess.”

“I never guess.”

“Scuse me. Let me know when you've deduced it.”

“Is he alive?”

“Yep. Eighteen.”

“Is he...hmmm. Is he famous?”

“Erm, a bit. More than he’d like. Seventeen.”

“Do I know him?”

“Ha, yes. Sixteen.”

“What are you giggling about, John?”

“Nothing. Fifteen.”

“John!”

“It counts as a question, if you’re trying to deduce me!”

“This is playing hell with my Twenty Questions statistics, John.”

“Well you’ve met your match apparently.”

“Apparently so. Hmmm. I know him. Is he handsome?”

“Ha. Oh yes.Fourteen.”

“Oh indeed? Have you ever. Fancied him?”

“Mm thirteen. Yep.”

“Is he tall?”

“Taller than I am. Twelve.”

“Was he at the wedding?”

“Yes, he certainly was. Eleven. Don’t want to guess? I thought you would straight off.”

“Isn’t it. Major Sholto?”

“It’s you!”

“Oh! Oh yes, I see it now. Oh.”

“Here’s me trying to flirt! Oh, Sherlock. Of course it’s you! Give us kiss? ...lovely. Right then. Your turn.” 

“Okay go on, then.”

“Is it me?”

“...no.”

“Liar.”

…

Dear Boys,  
Welcome to the cottage! We’ve fixed up the extension as a guest room, but there are fresh linens in the master so please feel free to take that if you find it more comfortable. The kitchen is stocked, but there’s some cash under the bread bin if you need any shopping. We know how Sherlock loves his baking!

Mummy asks that you please water the roses and go by the time table she fixed to the watering can. Help yourselves to the wine in the pantry. Please bring in the mail. Don’t break any locks. Have a lovely holiday, dears. See you in a bit! 

Love,  
Mum and Dad

PS There’s going to be a meteor shower around 2 AM on the 31st, and the roof is a very fine place to stargaze.  
M+D

...

“So I’m a dear boy as well, am I?”

“Of course you are.”

“Your parents aren’t standoffish at all.”

“Well no, of course not with you. You’re an angel. They’ll think so anyway. I say they will. They do. They have, clearly. Since they clapped eyes on you at Baker Street, actually.” 

“Really?”

“An angel.”

“Did they say that to you?”

“They’ve said. Things.”

“Ooooh, what sort of things?”

“Mmnope, don’t let me spoil it for you. I’m sure they’ll be repeated, and I wouldn’t want to steal their thunder. At Christmas my mum stage-whispered to me that it’d all come right.”

“Clever lady.”

“That must be where I get it from.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you hear that?” Sherlock peered out from behind his book. 

“Hear what?” I absently turned a page of my newspaper. 

Sherlock didn’t answer but rose from his chair and went to look out of the sitting room window, “There it is again.”

I looked up, “I didn’t hear anything.”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, “Honestly John, your ears are primarily ornamental.”

I snorted, “Gosh thanks.”

Sherlock threw the window open and leaned his head and shoulders out of it. I heard it that time. The thin voice of a child raised plaintively, “Sherlock!” The child’s voice was joined by a woman’s, and Sherlock looked meaningly at me. 

I came and pulled the window shut, “Right. Stay here. I’ll just pop out and see what that is.” I kissed his cheek. “Be right back. Stay here, please.” 

I stepped out of the cottage into the coolness of twilight and walked down the drive, looking all about me and listening hard for the voices we’d heard earlier. 

When they came again, I called back, “Hello?”

The woman’s voice answered, “Hello?”

“Hello? Everything all right out there?” I called as I walked past the hedges along the end of the drive. There was a woman about my own age and a little girl of around eight a little ways down the road. They were walking away from me, but they both turned at the sound of my voice. 

“Yeah, all fine,” the woman called back as I approached. “Only we’ve lost our dog. Moira here has got the best lungs in the family, so she’s helping me look. The woman put one hand briefly on the little girl’s shoulder, “Right Moira?” Moira nodded without speaking and reached for the woman’s hand. 

I squinted at them for a moment as the her story sunk in, then burst out laughing, “Your dog’s called Sherlock?”

“Oh yeah, ha.” The woman smiled and exchanged glances with her daughter, “Bit of a long story. We named him after this detective bloke. He’s sort of a local celebrity. Well not that he’s local, but. Er well anyway that’s neither here nor there. He was quite famous a bit ago, and he was actually in the news again last month.” 

I swallowed laughter and nodded, “Right I have heard of him, as a matter of fact. And there’s someone I think you should meet.”

I started at the sound of Sherlock’s voice behind me, “That would be me, I suppose. Hello.” 

I turned to him, “You followed me!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes of course, obviously I followed you. I’m not going to let my boyfriend go wandering about the countryside alone after dark.”

“It’s not after dark.”

“Nearly. You could be eaten by a cow or something. They’re just loose here, like pigeons. I’d never forgive myself.”

“I asked you to stay in the cottage.”

“And I followed you for the same reasons. Reciprocity! Marvellous thing, isn’t it? Anyway.” Sherlock stepped past me, “It’s a lucky thing for Moira here that I did follow because I know just what to do about lost dogs. If you could all come with me please.” And he turned and darted back toward the cottage. I followed, and our new friends came along on my heels. Sherlock has that effect on people somehow. 

We followed a few paces behind Sherlock and found him scrabbling in a desk in the sitting room. A moment later he held up a little silver tube with an Aha! of triumph. Sherlock swept past us back out of the house and we all followed behind him. 

Sherlock turned to the woman, “Did you lose him around here?”

“Yes, he escaped from the garden today at some point between dinner and bathtime. He’s only been gone about an hour, but,” here the woman raised her voice a bit as if calling to the dog, “it’s nearly dark and he ought to be getting home now.”

Sherlock shook his head sympathetically, “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child, mm?” He looked down to address Moira, “Now Moira, do you know what this is?” Sherlock held up the silver tube. 

Moira looked at it for a moment, “A whistle.”

“A dog whistle. If I blow on it, the whistle will emit a sound audible to dogs but not humans. It’s used in training dogs. I’m going to give it a blast, then you call for your dog as loud as you can, all right?” Moira nodded. “Good. Here goes.” Sherlock blew hard on the whistle, then pointed to Moira. 

She drew a long breath and shouted, “SHERLOCK!”

“Beautiful!” Sherlock covered one hand with his ear. “Let’s try it again.” He blew again and Moira shouted. Sherlock held up a hand for silence, and we all waited. “Hmm,” Sherlock raised the whistle after a moment’s silence. “Perhaps we should-” Sherlock lowered the whistle. “Who hears that barking?” He cupped a hand to his ear and the barking grew slowly louder until a curly black spaniel mix sprang through a hedge halfway down the road and galloped toward us. 

I nudged Sherlock, “Ha, he looks just like you.”

Sherlock nudged back, “He’s got brown eyes.” 

“Sherlock!” Moira and her mother stooped to claim doggy hugs and kisses. 

Sherlock the man bounced on the spot, grinning and nudging me, happy as I’ve ever seen him. It was all I could do not to laugh aloud at the delighted expression on his face. 

Moira’s mother straightened up, trying to compose her face, “Well one of us is getting on past his bedtime.”

Sherlock laughed, “Gosh, does it show? I thought I was doing so well.”

Moira’s mum smiled at the joke, “Thank you so much for finding our dog. You don’t know what it means, Mr…”

“Holmes,” Sherlock held out his hand “Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock nodded down at the dog, “His antecedent.” Moira’s head snapped up at that. She didn’t speak, but she looked between her mother and Sherlock, her eyes shining. 

Our new friend took Sherlock’s hand, “Hang on, you’re Sherlock Holmes? The famous detective?”

“More or less,” Sherlock threw a playful glance at me. “Sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“Tor. Tor Trevor. Love your website!” Tor shook Sherlock’s hand enthusiastically, “Great to meet you!”

Sherlock glanced at me again rather smugly, “Pleasure to meet you, Tor.”

Tor Trevor smiled rather apologetically, “Well I should be getting Miss Moira off to bed. I’m sure we’ll see you soon. Thanks again.” 

I put one hand on Sherlock’s waist and held out the other to shake, “Nice meeting you.” 

Tor took it, “You must be Doctor Watson, then.”

I grinned, “Yep, that’s me. John is fine, though.” Sherlock smiled fondly at me and put an arm about my shoulder. 

“Very nice to meet you both. I hope to see you around the neighbourhood again soon. My wife certainly won’t believe us unless we do, will she Moira?” Tor looked down at Moira, and she shook her head.

Sherlock fished in his pocket and held out the dog whistle, “Here, then. Against skeptics and lost dogs.”

…

Holiday

You may have noticed if you’ve been round Baker Street of late that Himself and I are not at home. We’re having a much needed holiday, and we’ll be away for a bit. I shan’t say where exactly, for obvious reasons, but we’ve been put up by some relations who are also on holiday. 

As it turns out, there have been a few generations of Holmses living in this village. That makes our Sherlock something of a celebrity here. We actually met a namesake of his on our fourth evening. A dog. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so enchanted. Mind you, the last thing he’d do is admit it. He can’t hide from me, though. I’m onto his tricks. Nearly all of them. Still nice to be surprised from time to time.

Comments (22)

Sherlock Holmes:  
I suppose here is where I deny ever having looked at a dog so that all and sundry can coo at me for being rebellious and adorable both. 

John Watson:  
Let the record show that I was not the one to introduce the word adorable. 

Harry Watson:  
You’re not special for liking dogs. Everybody likes dogs. And I don’t find you adorable. No offense.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Harry; that’s very consoling. 

John Watson:  
He is special actually. Quite fantastic. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Ah John, always riding about with my token at your breast and my banner on your lance. How gratifying. 

Harry Watson:  
Ergh. We didn’t need to know all that. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Elevate your mind. I resent the implication that I have said anything untoward. 

John Watson:  
Yeah, I like him romantic.

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, John.

TTor74:  
It was such a pleasure to meet you! I can't believe our own Sherlock is on Dr Watson's blog!

John Watson:  
It was a pleasure to meet you as well!

TTor74:  
Charlotte is insisting I invite you to come round and let us cook you dinner as thanks. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
There really isn’t any need for all that. 

John Watson:  
Don’t go to any trouble. He’s already really pleased with himself for looking like a magician in front of new people. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
I always do. 

TTor74:  
It isn’t any trouble, but if not then at least you must take some of our strawberries. Do you like beer? We brew it. 

Molly Hooper:  
They don’t like friendship or leaving the house, but if you keep going round, they eventually stop pretending they aren’t pleased to see you. 

Sherlock Holmes:  
Thank you, Molly. 

John Watson:  
Where are the torches? Follow up question, fancy a moonlit ramble?

Sherlock Holmes:  
In the desk and yes, immediately. 

John Watson:  
N’night, all. Go out and see the moon tonight, if you get the chance. It’s a great big dreamboat of a thing.


	6. Chapter 6

Wake to a soft snuffling. A moist, muffled sound that my sleep-heavy brain takes a moment to place. Reach for John automatically and stop short. He is turned on his side, his back to me, weeping surreptitiously into the crook of his elbow. His shoulders shake with the effort of suppression. I stare stupidly at his back for a moment, trying to force down my answering panic and wondering how best to intervene. 

John sighs wearily and sinks a bit lower under the blanket, “Go back to sleep, Sherlock. It’s nothing. Just a bad dream.” His voice is thick with swallowed tears, “‘M all right. Go back to sleep.”

I touch John’s back tentatively, and he stiffens. Withdraw my hand. Panic is getting harder to fight (no time for it now; it won’t help John). 

“Can I hug you?” Cringe through a pause that seems to last an aeon, before John pushes himself into sitting and turns to me. I sit up as well, and he lets me draw him to me and lay his head on my chest. I stroke his back in long ovals. His breathing slows and his heart slows, and I hold him tighter.

“She,” John’s voice is still raspy, but it startles me anyway in the silence of the room. “I didn’t find you in time.”

“Yes, you did, John.” Squeeze him tighter, kiss his hair, “I’m here because you saved me.” John doesn’t answer, but he nods against my chest. “It’s over now, John. It’s all right now.”

John looks up at me, “Could we get out of bed?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry. I just. I won’t sleep, and it’s a bit. A bit close in here or something. Can we get out of bed?”

“Yes, of course, John.” Rise and get out of bed, and John follows me. We put on dressing gowns and slippers and descend into the kitchen. 

We take seats round the table. I make tea, but John only huddles rather miserably over his mug, blowing absently at the steam that curls off it from time to time. 

Wrap my arm about his shoulders and wait for him to look up at me, “Want to come and see something?”

John shrugs, “Sure.” He follows me out to the sitting room and takes a seat on the sofa. I search the bookshelves til I find a couple of old photo albums and bring them over to John. He brightens visibly when he see’s what I’ve got. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” 

Flop onto the sofa next to him and flip open the oldest of the photo albums, “It may surprise you to learn I had a childhood and wasn’t created by a good witch planting a barleycorn in a flower pot.”

“That is very specific,” John grins at me and hooks his chin over my shoulder to look down into my lap at the photos. “Ahh, tell me about this one. Who’s this?”

Smile fondly, “That’s me, age eight with my rat Dupin on my shoulder.”

John’s grin broadens, “Did you name your pet rat after the first detective?”

Cock my head to kiss his temple, “What else?”

John leans into the contact, “Did you give him a tiny magnifying glass?”

Nuzzle John's hair as I answer, “No, Dupin wasn’t actually a detective. Though I did train him to stand up and to shake hands and then we got bored of learning tricks.” 

“You taught a rat to shake hands?”

“Well what would you do with your rat?”

“Fair enough.” 

Dab a few more kisses on John’s temple, then turn over a few leaves of the photo album. John stops me with his finger on a page, “Tell me about this one. That’s your dad?”

He’s chosen a picture of my father dozing in a deck chair with me asleep in his lap. “Mmhm and me, age three or four, I’d say. Sunbathing in the garden. Frecklefarming, my dad called it.”

John laughs and traces a fingertip over my tiny self, “You were blonde.”

“Extremely.” 

John looks up at me, “Lucky for you, you aren’t anymore. Blonde detective, that wouldn’t work. Not hard-boiled enough.”

Nudge him mock-indignantly, “Excuse you. Blondes as a group are poorer for having lost me from among your number.”

John laughs and reaches up to clasp my neck and kiss me. “Mmm, we’re going to have this someday, aren’t we?” He’s got so calm and cheerful now (can’t believe I did that for him)(when did I learn to do that?).

“Going to have what?”

John pats the photo album on my lap, “All these. Volumes of memories. Records of the good times.”

“The dawn of the good old days.”

“The normal things Sherlock likes.” 

Kiss him and kiss him, “Of course we will, John. Of course we will.”


	7. Chapter 7

The bedroom is just a bit too warm when I wake. My cheek adheres to John’s arm and under the blankets, our bare legs are a slightly sticky tangle. There’s a golden shaft of sunlight falling across John’s torso and face, illuminating the fine, bright hair on his chest and the ruddy scattering of freckles he’s cultivated since we’ve been at the cottage. There’s a little sheen of sweat on his neck that I rather want to push my nose into (developing a great affinity for all of John’s most fragrant crannies)(John is very indulgent of the resultant urges)(mmmm). 

Nestle closer to him and stroke his chest. John hums (feel it in my fingertips), catches my hand, and raises it to his mouth to kiss it. 

“Good morning, gorgeous.” His lips are chapped. 

“John.” Comes out rather soft and shy (sounding shy makes me feel shy). Clear my throat, “Finally awake, John.”

“Have I been keeping you waiting?” He kisses my hand again. And again (starting to tingle)(my ears are warm). 

“Not long.” 

John lowers my hand and holds it to his chest. Lose my train of thought feeling his beating heart under my palm. He hums and sighs with deep contentment. I could almost think I may be about to lose him to sleep again. 

Except that his heart rate is increasing. 

“Not long,” tip my chin up and look into his handsome, smiling face as I speak. “Not long, only time does stretch on when one is waiting to be kissed.” (Ah me, sad hours seem long)(Who said that?)(Shakespeare something. Doesn’t matter). 

John inclines his face toward mine and nuzzles my nose with his, “Tell me about it.” 

I kiss him, of course. He wanted me to (I’m being seduced)(!)(turning it back round on me)(!!!). Can still feel his heart thudding away against my palm. Picking up speed. Thrilling. John strokes one hand up my chest (against the grain)(tingles) and rests his hand on my neck, warm and gentle. 

Wish I weren’t leaning on my other arm; I need to touch more of him, all of him. Maddening sometimes to only exist in one moment at a time. Though even one moment at a time is rather a lot sometimes. Still something in me is unfurling and bounding, and I’m so greedy to soak up every drop of John. I want to be saturated. I want to be supersaturated. I will be, I think. I will I will. John’s touch on my neck is so light and patient, but under my hand his heart gives him away. A hot, skittery, voracious thing, just like me. 

John’s hand slides down my back and gropes for the gap between my underwear and my tee shirt. He toys with the hem of my shirt for a moment, before darting his hand under it and stroking my hip, “Can I undress you, gorgeous?” I nod, and John kisses me, “Brilliant.” He kicks away the blanket and sits up. I sit up as well and lower my head to let John pull my shirt off over it. He tosses my shirt away, then sends his own to join it. 

John sits on his calves and leans me back against the headboard, “Comfy enough ?” He reaches for his pillow and plumps it invitingly. 

Grin, “I’ll have the pillow.”

“Excellent choice, sir,” John beckons me with one hand, then pats his shoulder. “Could I have you lean forward and put your chin here?” I obey, and John lays his cheek against mine, “Perfect.” He tucks the pillow behind me and reclines me into it. Hum with satisfaction and feel John smile into my ear, “Ooh, that’s what I like to hear.” His breath tickles me. Shiver a little, and John wraps his arm round my waist and skims one hand down my ribcage, stirring gooseflesh in its wake. He kisses my ear, my jaw, my throat. Keep shivering. 

John settles a hand on my hip and crooks his fingers into my underwear. Raise my hips, and he pulls them off me. He stretches out on his belly next to me, his sweet handsome face upturned and strokes my knee, and I’m not sure how it’s a question, but it’s a question. 

Shut my eyes for a moment, “Actually John.” Clear my throat (my voice is all funny, keeps coming too small and then too big). “I thought. I might. Er. Drive. If you don’t mind.” 

John grins up at me (his delight is beautiful to look at; it shines), “By all means. Where do you want me, gorgeous?”

“Erm. Here, on the pillow.” Rise to my knees to surrender the spot, and John swaps places with me. I stretch out like he’d done and kiss his hip, nose along the crease between his groin and his thigh. He’s already half hard (very encouraging). 

John eases gentle fingers into my hair, “Okay?”

“Mmm, it’s nice.” Lean into John’s touch briefly, then stroke his cock with my fingertips, “I’ll just make friends, shall I?”

John laughs, “Don’t feel shy; he’s already very fond of you.”

“Oh excellent,” kiss the head, “Did he tell you that?”

John’s hand in my hair grows a little firmer, “Yeah, he can’t stop gushing about you.”

Try to swallow my giggles, but only manage to snort them into John’s thigh, “Christ, John. You’re going to pun away the ambiance.” John’s answering giggles are drowned in a groan when I take the head of his cock into my mouth (little tang of pre-come already, how prompt of him). He gets completely hard in my mouth almost at once. Suck for a moment, then pull off with a soft pop and stroke the shaft. 

John hums and his hand in my hair slackens, “That’s nice, lovely. Mmm.” Pause and rub my head against his hand until he pulls again. Mmmm (shiver).

Kiss the blushing head again and lick up the shaft, then take him into my mouth deeper than before. Make myself bob slowly, though the bounding thing in my middle is restive as ever. Squeeze John’s scrotum, and he squirms and groans and pulls my hair. Delicious. Gradually pick up my pace. Pull nearly off to suck hard on the head and roll the foreskin between my lips. 

John’s head falls back against the headboard with a thump, “Ahh fuck...Sh...mmmmm...that’s...ah oooh…” Take him in further than before, and his thighs start to tremble, “Ahhh! Sherlock, I’m gonna…” Bob faster and squeeze his scrotum, and John comes with a gasp and a long shudder. Turn onto my side, rest my cheek against John’s thigh (still trembling a bit!) and run my tongue over and over my bottom lip (feels swollen). John nudges me with his knee, “Come up here and give me a kiss?” 

I push up and let John hug me to him. He kisses me, strokes my neck. Squirm when my erection jabs against John. John slides his free hand between us and squeezes my cock. I jolt hard, and he laughs quietly, “That all right?” Can’t speak. Nod. Bury my face in John’s shoulder and muffle my sighs and gasps against his skin as he strokes my cock. He pauses to lick his hand, then closes it around the head of my cock. Push up into his hand, and he squeezes harder, strokes me faster, “That’s better, isn’t it gorgeous? Does that feel better?” I nod into John’s shoulder, and he kisses the top of my head and glides his hand down my spine to my arse. Shiver at that (the tiny hairs down my neck are all trembling on end) and John hums. John rolls his thumb over the head of my cock and squeezes my arse, and I come onto his chest with a jerk and a little shout. 

…

“I wish I had extra hands,” Sherlock remarked. “I could do with at least two more.” His hands were both parked on my backside, which he drummed for emphasis. 

I laughed, “What would you be doing with three and four right now, Sherlock? If you ask me, one and two have already got the best seat in the house.”

Sherlock tried not to laugh and was only partially successful, “You’re always forcing the most undignified noises out of me, John.”

“Well I don’t mean to stop anytime soon, so you’d better get used to it.” 

Sherlock gave me another little pat, “I shall try, John, but I don’t make you any promises.”

“Anyway, I think we’re about even on the undignified noises extraction front.” I kissed his chest

“I must start keeping track.” Sherlock tightened his arm around me, pressing out a little sigh. 

“Keeping track is boyfriend duties, so yeah, you’d better.” I stroked a curl back from Sherlock’s forehead, “Speaking of keeping track, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Mmm?” Sherlock was already sinking into his post-sex sleepiness. 

“We came out here to look after you, and you keep turning it round on me and looking after me. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Sherlock stroked my back, “We came because you said you were tired, and you wanted to do something romantic.”

“We came because we. Needed a holiday.”

“That’s what I said.” We were quiet for a moment. Sherlock drummed his fingers on my back, “Are you.” He paused for so long that I opened my mouth to ask him to continue, “Do you feel better?”

“Loads better, yeah.” I felt a bit sheepish admitting it, “But really, I wanted to come because I wanted you to have a proper rest.” 

“I’m not going to stop being nice,” Sherlock murmured. “I need something to do, or I’ll go out of my head.”

“Nor am I. I don’t mind if you don’t.” I kissed his chin. 

Sherlock turned his head and caught my mouth, “Just as you please John.” He yawned a warm swoosh against my face, “Only shut up now. I’m sleeping.” 

…

“Do you need a washing doing, lovely?”

“Not especially.”

“Because if you do, just let me know.”

“I don’t. What’s this sudden fixation on my laundry?”

“You keep stealing my pants! So if you’re low on pants, and you need a washing, let me know, and I’ll do one for you. But if you don’t, then stop stealing my pants!”

“I’m not stealing your pants!”

“Oh really? Then how do you explain the woodpeckers on your underwear, if not snaffled?”

“Oh, are these yours?”

“Did you buy them?”

“No.”

“Did you receive them as a gift?”

“Not. Not to my. Recollection.”

“Are you in any way responsible for the presence of the woodpecker pants in this house?”

“Well you packed, so I’m not entirely responsible for the presence of any pants in this house.”

“You’re a pants snaffler, and you’re going to have to admit it.”

“I don’t snaffle; it’s beneath my dignity.”

“Pants bandit, then.”

“I admit nothing.”

“They do look nice on you, though. Bit snug. I like that.”

“Thank you, John.”

“By the way, you’re the first person whose pants I have ever offered to wash.”

“Don’t imagine the significance has escaped me, John.”


	8. Chapter 8

“It’s probably not our best idea to stay up all night right before our journey home,” Sherlock remarked as he spread out the thick wool blanket on the dewy lawn. 

I positioned the lantern on one corner of the blanket and dimmed it before stretching out on my back, “It’s too overcast to see the stars anyway. This is just an excuse to get pissed out of doors, isn’t it?”

Sherlock flopped next to me and reached into his jacket to pluck out a flask before he replied, “Oh did we need an excuse, Mr Butterfly on My Willy?”

I took a pull from the flask and nudged Sherlock mock indignantly, “In fairness to me, there was actually a butterfly on my willy-”

He nudged back “Only it happened actually to be the pattern on your shorts.”

“And you’re the one who kept pouring pitchers of that pink stuff down my throat.”

Sherlock held his hand out for the flask as if reminded, “Snow queens. Sounded refreshing.”

“Snow queens, right. They were refreshing. Strong, though.”

Sherlock smiled fondly, “Yeah, a bit strong.” After a few moments’ silence, Sherlock reached over and took my hand and kissed it, “Nice night.” 

It was nice. The scent of the roses hung on the mild air and there was a breeze playing picturesquely in Sherlock’s curls. “Yeah. Beautiful night. Too bad about the clouds, though.” 

“Pity,” Sherlock agreed, stroking my hand. 

I shifted to touch my head to Sherlock’s, “I’m actually quite looking forward to going home. Not that it hasn’t been beautiful here. Just.”

“It isn’t home,” Sherlock pressed my hand. 

“Right, exactly. And anyway I want to go back to er, making our lives. Know what I mean?” I pressed back.

“Making our lives. Yes.” Sherlock looked up at the sky, “I know just what you-oh! John, look!” He tugged at my hand and pointed at a clear scrap of sky where the clouds had parted. I looked in time to see a streak of light flash, quick as thought. “Beautiful!” Sherlock’s lovely face was rapt in the lantern light. “You see it, John?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. I see it.” 

…

“Will you tell me why you’re swearing so much please, darling? Do you need a fire extinguisher?”  
“My ganache won’t come smooth, John! And I’m already beating it as hard as I dare!”  
“Erm. That sounds. Bad?”  
“For the cake! It’s a smooth chocolate glaze. It’s meant to be smooth, anyway, but it’s only shiny and lumpy and obstinate!”  
“I’m sorry to hear that, but y'know your parents won’t mind about a lumpy ganache, love.”  
“John!”  
“Sorry, sorry. Don’t know what I was thinking. Internet says try beating faster or melting it with a double boiler. The ganache, that is.”  
“Invaluable as ever, John. You’ve redeemed yourself.”  
“Ha, well thank you darling, I was on the edge of my seat.” 

…

 

“Marvellous!” John and my parents applaud as La Vie En Rose fades from the air of the sitting room. Tuck my violin under my arm and bow to hide my foolish expression and the warmth diffusing across my face. 

“That was lovely, darling!” Mum always claps for an additional second or two after after everyone else has stopped.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d know that one,” Dad remarks. 

“One of my disguises when I was,” pause a moment and glance at John, “abroad. Was as a busker. That one always got me lots of money. I almost considered a career change.”

John snorts, “If you’re changing jobs, I vote baker.”

“Is that a hint?” Set my violin back in its case, “I’ll cut the cake. Do we want tea with it?”

“Oh that sounds lovely,” Dad rises from the sofa. “I’ll help. No, you two sit there. We’ll manage nicely.”

I arch an eyebrow at Dad and follow him into the kitchen. He stops me when I make to put the kettle on. 

“Just a moment, Sherlock,” he pats his pockets almost absently as he speaks (looking for his glasses?)(they’re on his Larry Grayson chain round his neck).”I want a nice quiet word with you.” He finds whatever it is in his breast pocket and holds it cupped between both hands. 

Feel a little nervous at his expectant bearing. Clasp my hands behind my back, “Yes?”

“We had a look at your website while we were on holiday.”

Smile at that, “Did you? Look at his cupped hands to try and deduce this souvenir from the States apparently inspired by my website. 

“That led us to John’s blog,” Dad continues slowly.

Suddenly feel that I’m being rather slow to cotton on to something, “Oh? Well, his blog’s always been popular. John er. Has a way with words.”

Dad smiles, “So he does. You two seem to bring out the best in each other.”

That makes me grin, “We do seem to, yes.”

Dad’s smile grows a little broader and he holds out his hand, “Here then. This belonged to my mother’s father. In case you ever have use for it.” I reach out to accept this gift, whatever it is, and my father drops a gold wedding band into my palm. I stare down at it, startled by my own hypothetical audacity. “I’m not asking any questions. I’m not asking you to confide in us before you speak to John. But here, this is yours now to do what you like with.”

“Thanks Dad. I. Thanks.” I pocket the ring, and Dad gives me a hug. 

I look up a moment later to find John’s put his head round the doorway. He smiles fondly when we catch eyes, “Hello my love. I came to see if you need me.”

“Yes please, John. I will have you if you’re offering.” Look at my father, “Want to go and keep Mum company? John and I’ll do the tea and things.” Dad pats my shoulder and slips past John back out to the sitting room. “Thank you for your help, John.”

“Of course, Sherlock.” John kisses me. “Where do you want me?”

“Put the kettle on? I’ll cut the cake.” John nods and steps to at once. I stand still a moment too long and watch him, thinking and thinking as hard as ever I have before. 

…

Being at home again brings me so close to confidence. There have been moments that seemed almost right. Incidentally romantic atmosphere makes even mundane moments seem miraculously opportune. A dinner. A bath. A long, silent ramble in the park. Starlight on John's hair. In his eyes (shines out of him)(I’m a planet in his orbit)(would he enjoy hearing that?)(it’d make him uneasy)(?)(too big, too much, too romantic)(whatever I say to the contrary, John is not generally a romantic)(except as concerns me)(M proved me the exception; he so wanted to love her)(she never even existed)(like I told him about me before I went away)(my poor John and his spectral loves). 

My confession (declaration?)(proposal, why reinvent the wheel?)(feels like a confession for which I must be granted pardon)(how dare I presume?) My presumptuous proposition has been lurking on the tip of my tongue. Not a new inclination (used to dream of it)(once there was a white horse)(infuriating!). 

I have felt near the right words at times. Let’s remake this staid institution. Let’s pave over our ugly past. Let’s stay together always. The last doesn’t want saying (always always always)(he must know I'd never leave him again). If I’d been born an ancient Egyptian, I’d have taken satisfaction from the idea of entombing myself with John to traverse the afterlife together (though the concept of the afterlife has always been ridiculous). Mouldering next to John until we’re nothing but dust is the most restful thing I can imagine. Content to wait another 80 or 90 years for it, though (I want to live)(!). 

The ring is hastening me to my John. Hot to the touch and the goldest thing that ever was. Inexorable. It craves John. Just as I do.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] A Little Domestic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15517458) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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